


Something and Nothing

by klained



Series: Forgiveness [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klained/pseuds/klained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa gives birth to their first child. Sandor doesn't take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something and Nothing

Sandor woke slowly to his shoulder being nudged. As he became more aware, he realized it was Sansa trying to shake him. He turned towards her and reached to pull her close. He snapped fully awake when she slapped his arm away.

“Wake up, please,” she pleaded in the dark.

The pain and terror in her voice had him fighting with the bed curtains, trying to pull them back enough to get some light on her. In the weak light of the dying embers in the brazier, her face was twisted, brow furrowed and eyes tight, and she was curled in around her rounded belly. Not since King’s Landing had he seen her in such pain. He gently stroked her leg in an attempt to sooth her. She knocked his hand away again.

“Get the maester! The baby…” Her broken voice had him stumbling out of the bed and into trousers quicker than a knife can slide through a man’s gut.

After pulling boots over his bare feet, Sandor ran out the door to the maester’s tower. On the way back, he also roused the maid to light the candles and stoke the fire. Despite this, he still returned to Sansa first. She had sat up on her own and was clutching her pregnant belly. He sat beside her and rubbed her lower back.

“Hurry up and help her!” he barked when the maester finally arrived. The maester felt and poked at Sansa’s belly for what seemed far too long. “Well?”

The maester ignored him. “Your Grace, it appears to be time.”

Sandor stomach squeezed in anger. He was husband to the Queen in the North and father of her future heir. He had a right to know what was happening and he growled. “Time for what?”

The maester blinked, as if the answer was obvious. “For the child to be born, my lord.”

He froze completely. The child. A vision of Sansa cuddling a miniature version of herself flashed through his mind. Her agonized groan returned him to the present.

“Are you useless or just deaf and blind?” he snapped at the maester. “Can’t you see your queen is in pain? Give her something!” The maid chose then to arrive with an armful of firewood. “And where have you been?” He felt a thrill of satisfaction when she dropped her load. “Your queen is having a child and you dawdle in your duties?” He turned back to Sansa at her touch.

“That’s enough,” she intoned. Her hairline had started growing damp despite the chill. “They know their tasks and do not need orders. It is time now for you to listen and obey.” He nodded, cowed.

At the maid’s direction, he helped to remove much of the bed coverings. He was then sent on an errand to the kitchens for hot water and some fruit from the glasshouse. Upon his return, pillows were propped up for Sansa to lean against and the maid was rubbing her back while the maester arranged cloth and metals on a table. After setting the food and water down, Sandor began to pace the room. Why did it appear as if nothing had happened in his absence? He felt his hackles begin to rise again in irritation. What was the maester waiting for? As if on cue, his little bird gave a pained groan.

“Do you like seeing your queen in pain?” he growled.

“Milk of the poppy will relieve the pain, but will also make the birth more difficult,” the maester said irritably. “Forgive me, your Grace,” he added more agreeably. “I do not wish to make you suffer unnecessarily.”

“I understand,” she sweetly responded. “Do what you find best, maester.” Her expression turned hard as she looked towards her husband and pointed sharply at the door. “Sandor, out!”

He had made is way out to the training yard before he realized he was still only half clothed. He grabbed a dulled blade and began training to warm up in the predawn chill. Soon, servants began to make their appearances, carrying firewood to rooms, or tending to the animals. Some of the earliest risers gave him odd looks but said nothing. As the sun rose, though, word seemed to spread and the looks changed.

As he sliced and hacked at the post, the night watch gave him tired greetings before retiring and the day guard likewise m’lorded him. Rickon and Bran both watched him for a time before going about their own tasks. The sun was fully up when Arya came to see him, a platter of food in one hand, a bundle in the other.

“What do you want, wolf-bitch?” he panted, worn from the exertion.

“For my sister to not get angry at you for freezing to death.” She set down the platter and shook out the bundle. It was a tunic and cloak. “Put these on or she’ll kill you if you don’t die first.”

Sandor snatched the clothes away and put them on readily. “Sansa’s giving birth right now.”

She sat on the crossbeam of the fence around the yard. “I know.”

“She sent me from the room.”

“She sent me with your tunic and cloak, Hound. I know.”

He felt his anger rise again. “And I know she thinks I’ll be a shitty father!”

Arya shrugged. “There was a while there, after the last one, where she thought you were not going to be a father at all.”

Sandor remembered. After Sansa had lost what should have been their first child, he had pulled from her. The maester told him it was not unusual for a child to be lost, that there was no reason not to give her another. But what if his seed was not suitable? What if he had over exerted her within those first few days? What if his seed did take and she bore the child? Would she survive, or die as his own sister had? Or what if the child turned out like his brother, monstrous in mind and body? He tore at a roll from the patter.

“Your queen chose a shit husband,” was the only response he could think of.

“My sister,” Arya retorted, “could do better than you except for one thing. You,” she pointed straight at him, “are more loyal to her than anyone. No one in the north has proven to be as loyal as you.”

“Any dog can be loyal,” he snapped.

“And you’re the most loyal one she ever met,” she snapped back. “You treat her like a little porcelain doll, but she’s tougher than that. She’s got as much wolf in her as I do!”

They looked so different, but the fire behind Arya’s eyes exactly matched the fire in Sansa’s. Sandor nodded.

“And how long does it take the queen of the wolves to birth a half-bred pup, you think?” His stomach tightened again and he set the roll down. Eating would solve nothing.

“Oh, she’s had it,” came the casual response.

“WHAT?”

His outrage didn’t phase her. “Little girl named Catelyn. For Mum.” She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Sansa says the name was your idea.”

He felt his legs moving, heard his boots thudding, but couldn’t recall telling them to. At the door to her – their chambers, he stopped, steadied his breathing, then slowly entered. The bed was empty and the bedding changed by the maid from before. She smiled sweetly and nodded towards the fire. Sansa sat in a chair, wrapped in her robes, holding a bundle to her breast. She turned her head and grinned as he approached.

“Arya found you, I’m glad.” She looked back to the bundle then at him again. “A girl. I used to hope all my children would be sons.”

He looked to the bundle. Wrapped up tightly among the blankets, the infant was tiny and pink. A thatch of black fluff covered her head but her lips were small and puckered into a sweet bow. Sandor knelt beside the chair. Some instinct he never knew he had drew his lips to the child’s forehead. The child, Catelyn, his Cat, gave a little mewl and Sansa giggled.

“You aren’t disappointed in a girl?” She sounded so uncertain Sandor had to kiss her.

“A girl is more than I ever wanted, little bird,” he murmured in her ear.

“Do you want to hold her?”

Now it was his turn to be uncertain, but he nodded. As the maid slipped out, the tiny babe was placed in his arms. He marveled that it fit so easily in the crook of one, and he pulled Sansa close for another kiss with the other. Then he rose and slowly paced the room, rocking his new daughter in his arms.

“Hello, little one,” he whispered to it. “I’m your papa. I know, not much to look at. You might even hear others call me a dog. And I am, little girl. But you remember something. Your papa might be a dog, but your mama is a wolf. And we’ll both protect you.”

Cat gurgled at him and he kissed her forehead again. Turning around, he glanced towards Sansa. Her eyes had gone watery and she covered her mouth with both hands. He quickly but carefully, so carefully, returned to her side and knelt again.

“What is it, little bird?”

“Nothing,” she choked. A tear slid down her cheek, but she did nothing to wipe it away. Instead he pressed her hand to his ruined jaw. “Nothing.” She kissed him. “Nothing.” She rested her forehead to his and closed her eyes. “Nothing is wrong.”


End file.
